Disappointment
by Gandalf3213
Summary: Peter comes back from vacation to find that Neal ran as soon as his back was turned and was thrown in the state penitentiary. Can Peter get over his disappointement long enough to find out the true story, or will their partnership be over? 1st season
1. Disbelief

**A/N: We've loved White Collar from afar for two seasons and will not let this one go by unwritten about. This particular fic fits best in the first season, though. As always, we don't own anything or these would be the plots of the actual show and not just fanfiction. **

**.***.**

_"Don't you understand?" said Mr. Beaver, "He's gone to the White Witch. He has betrayed us all." **C.S. Lewis**_

.***.

Peter Burke was smiling when he stepped off the elevator onto White Collar's floor. The smile was a left over from the vacation and, he was sure, one that would fade with paperwork and frustrating cases and certain pet consultants... but for now he was happy to be back in his element.

It had taken three weeks in the Florida Keys to convince him that he was a strict work-aholic. Being away from the bureau for a week was fine by him – he got to see Elle and catch up on stuff he missed while working most nights, like current events and sex. Lots of sex. But by two weeks in he found himself pining, actually pining, for cases and espionage and hidden meaning. He found life just too boring without thievery.

He smiled when Jones rose from his desk. "How was the Keys?"

"Relaxing," Peter said, striding up to his office, happy to be back in the place where he was in his element. "But I found myself missing the city."

"That's 'cause you work too much, boss." Jones called out just before Peter closed the door.

He allowed himself to grin at the sight of the unsolved cases piled high. No one could live without a little mystery, and Peter had found himself suffocating in the ordinary world people lived in everyday. The first on the pile bore the look of an interdepartmental memo, a brief message that had only one word in the subject line.

Peter's good mood suddenly evaporated and he turned back towards the bull pen. "What has Caffery done now?"

He was studiously ignored, though there was a great deal of shuffling of papers and clearing of throats. Peter sighed and picked up the paper.

He'd left Neal with a handler in the Organized Crime division. Caffery had no ties to the mob or mafia, but he still recognized their MO's faster than those who'd been working that beat for years. They'd been trying to get Neal off him for a month, anyway, saying they were organizing a sting that they could sue his silver tongue on. Peter's vacation had come at an opportune moment: he didn't have to worry about Neal, and the people who were getting him actually wanted to use him.

This memo, however, said that Neal didn't particularly like walking on the seedier side of NYC. He'd attempted to escape, had cut his anklet and then taken off. He'd been caught a half-hour later, but was then considered a liability. Five days after Peter had left, over two weeks ago, Neal had been sent to a Level 1 penitentiary just outside of the city.

Never before had Peter been so…disappointed in another person. And so _angry_. Why, why, did Caffery choose that time to run? Because Peter wasn't around to catch him? Perhaps Peter didn't entirely trust Neal – and the evidence for that was on his desk – but he did enjoy working with him. To come back to an embarrassment like him running away was like a slap in the face. A "screw you, buddy."

Peter knew that he could fish Caffery out of prison. He was, technically, still _his_ felon, but Peter hadn't felt this angry in quite some time. No way was he going to drive all the way out to the Level 1 in order to pick up a guy who'd run out on him as soon as he turned his back. Not at the beginning of a day that was supposed to be pretty good.

He was moody all day, though he refused to admit that it had anything to do with Neal. He kept snapping, at Jones and Cruz, at Elle, when he stopped home for lunch, even at a witness at their latest high-class crime. He couldn't seem to keep his temper in check, and he considered himself a pretty even-tempered man. Caffery just brought out the worst in him.

He'd meant to head straight home, to hell with Neal and his Benedict Arnold act. He'd go to Hughes tomorrow and concede that the other man had been right, that they didn't need Caffery, really, that the criminal belonged in prison, that they should just wipe their hands of him.

But somehow his car was pointed in the direction of the penitentiary. Something to do with thinking of Neal, of the mugs of coffee and the paper crane, of the mostly unsolicited advice he had on every subject, of Neal's eyes – concerned, stormy, dancing, always that brilliant blue. Something within him drove him inexorably in the direction of the man he'd been starting to think of as his partner.

Maybe there was another side to this story, Peter mused as he got out of the car, putting his collar up against the bitter January cold. Maybe, just maybe, Neal had a reason for running.

As Peter flashed his badge and walked past the guards, he found himself hoping that there was an explanation for all of this.

"I need to see Neal Caffery." Peter said to a woman at the first desk he came to. The woman nodded, typing something, calling someone else, and Peter tapped his fingers against the hard metal impatiently.

The phone buzzing in his pocket was a welcome distraction. "Burke." He said, leaning against the countertop. He listened for a moment, his face becoming colder with each word. And he was going to give Caffery another chance…!

"I got it Jones. Thanks." He hung up just as a guard beckoned to him. Peter hesitated for a moment – he didn't want to see Caffery anymore, not after what he'd just heard. The guy could rot in prison forever for all he cared.

But then, like before, flashes Neal popped unbidden, unwanted…Neal's self-assured half-smile, his charm, the wine he'd bought for Elle, his concern for his missing girlfriend…and Peter strode forward, determined to go see Neal, but, because of the call, now completely unable to pity the man he thought was becoming his friend.

If Peter had looked, he would have seen that Neal was obviously sick – pale, thinner than he ever had been, shaking minutely, uncontrollably – and if Neal had stood up and walked, he would have noticed the limp, an untreated fractured pelvis. If Neal had, for any reason, shucked his shirt and displayed the harsh marks on his pale, taunt skin…showed off the visible ribs…well, perhaps he would have paused before dismissing the con so easily.

"Peter…" Neal said, his smooth voice something he was proud f in light of the fact that his lungs and throat felt like fire. "How was the Keys?"

"Johnny Gavin is dead." Peter said flatly, and he saw in Neal only what he wanted to see. A con caught in a bad position. A man who might have been his friend found out to be a coward, a traitor. "He was an NYPD cop for fifteen years. Great guy. Good father." Peter watched as Neal's expressive eyes widened at this sudden, unexpected bad news.

"What – Peter, what's going - ?"

"He was killed by the man you were supposed to take down!" Peter barked, and Neal flinched badly with sudden anxiety.

"Peter…" Neal said, placing, not bothering to cover up his illness anymore. And now his voice was raspy and low, something Peter didn't notice (or, as Neal thought later back in his cell, he didn't _care_). "What did they tell you?"

Peter saw red for a moment. One of New York's own was dead, there would be bad blood between NYPD and the Bureau for this, and Neal was trying to pass it off as a miscommunication. "You can't talk your way out of this one." He said, voice deadly low.

All the fight seemed to go out of Neal and he sagged in his chair. When he spoke again, it was soft, plaintive. "Peter, I swear it's not what you think."

"A man is dead, Caffery." Peter said, using the last name, severing all ties with Neal before he could get a word in edgewise. "A good man is dead." He stared at Neal, took in his appearance and for a moment the con thought he might see a flash of sympathy in the agent's eyes. But nothing happened. Peter's expression remained cold, distant, as he stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Neal alone and in prison.

He tossed one last thing over his shoulder. Something that would keep Neal awake thinking about it. "You disappointed me." Peter Burke, FBI agent said right before he walked out of Neal's life.

**Review?**


	2. Disappointed

_"Never injure a friend, even in jest." **Cicero**_

.***.

It's hard running your own business, harder still to get a reputation as good as the one Elizabeth Burke had garnered for herself. Being in the Keys had been…amazing. A chance for her and Peter to reconnect, to get away from the freezing New York winter, to get away from everything. But her first day back could not have been more hectic.

When Peter walked in the door (late, but El didn't really notice the time) she was on the phone with one of her girls and put up a finger to stave off anything Peter might say, to show that she'd be done in just a minute.

"That sounds great, Shelia." She said, already drawing the phone away from her ear. "Yeah…no, I'm sure it'll be fine. Thanks. Bye." She hung up the phone and heaved a sigh, raising an eyebrow to her husband. "How was your day, hon?"

It was only when the words had gotten completely out of her mouth, irretrievable, that she really saw Peter for the first time. He looked tired, frustrated, angry, and stood staring at a spot on the counter as if it was the most important piece of evidence in the world. "Peter?" She murmured, putting a hand on his arm. "What's wrong?"

Where to start? He wanted to get everything out – he and his wife had no secrets, and, besides, he wanted, _needed_ to talk to somebody about this, and who better than his best friend?

"A man in NYPD died." He said, except that's not really what he wanted to say. It was awful that the guy died, for sure, especially a guy with a wife and family, but that was the end of the story. The very end. "And…and Neal might have had a part in killing him."

El put her hand over her mouth. "No." She said, shaking her head. "I can't believe that! Neal _killed_ somebody?"

"By proxy is still killing." Peter muttered darkly. "He cut his anklet and ran out on Organized Crime. They couldn't take the chance he'd do it again and blow their cover – this is a sting they've been planning for _months_ and they put him in the penitentiary. The guy they were after killed the cop."

"Why'd Neal run?" Elizabeth asked, sitting in a chair, all the work she'd been meaning to catch up on the farthest thing from her mind. She had come to feel protective of the handsome young con Peter had been bringing around, come, she thought, to know him. This information left her confused about all of her assumptions.

When Peter didn't answer, she asked again, harder this time, "Peter? You asked Neal why he ran, right? You heard his side of the story?"

"I got the call about the cop right before I went in with him." Peter defended hotly. "And what can he say? He saw and opening and he took it. Ran out as soon as he had the chance. It's my own fault. I shouldn't have trusted him to begin with."

"Honey…" El sighed, reaching out to touch Peter's arm, unsurprised but hurt when he jerked his arm away from her. "Peter, you need to hear him out. You can't just let it end like this."

"I'm not going back there, El. I just need to put this all behind me." Peter was still so angry. The red hot pain of betrayal boiled hot in the pit of his stomach and he felt like he wanted to punch something, hurt someone like he'd been hurt by the smiling young man he'd spent so much of his life chasing. Well, the joke was on him.

"You need to go back there!" A quirky high voice called from the back door, the one they always kept locked, the one that, apparently, Mozzie could pick like it was child's play.

Peter opened his mouth to say something about breaking and entering, about being an FBI agent and able to get him arrested, and then shut it again, a small soft something opening in his chest and spilling its warm contents out. It was only later that he would identify this as hope – hope that Neal hadn't run at the first opportunity, hope that whatever Mozzie had to say would change his perception of the con.

"What do you know?" El asked, quicker than Peter, already half out of the chair. Mozzie stood half-shrouded in darkness, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, eyes flitting from Peter to his gun, discarded, unloaded, on the counter.

Mozzie seemed about to split – and, if it had been anyone other than Neal, he probably would have – but Peter literally saw him gather up whatever courage he needed to take the last few steps over to the table.

"Okay, I haven't been able to establish any real contact with Neal, but I managed to get this much." He put a file on the table, tapping it compulsively with his finger. "You need to look at this, and then look into Organized Crime, and catch that guy who shot the cop. Obviously. Neal's broken up about it. I no longer trust you, Suit, but _he_ still does. Only reason I'm here." Mozzie crossed his arms, uncrossed them, went back to tapping the folder.

"Why don't you just break him out yourself?" Peter asked, reaching for the folder only to have his hand flicked away by the other man.

"I wanted to. Had the whole thing planned out before he even got comfy, but for some reason he likes his job with you or something. Said that if you came back and found him out of the FBI's hands and out of the penitentiary you'll never trust him again. Personally, I don't see what the harm is in that."

Peter was studiously not looking at El, who was staring at him with a smirk on her face, a self-congratulatory little smile. Elizabeth always prided herself on being a good judge of character, and Mozzie's words had confirmed what she thought she'd known about the con artist.

Peter would take more convincing though. He had the proof that Neal was guilty – the cut anklet, the running, the shot cop – and no hard facts at all that he was innocent. In his mind, after being found liable of a federal offence, it would always be guilty until proven innocent.

"Fine." Peter said, leaning back in his chair and staring hard at Mozzie. "What do you got for me? Does anything in that file take back the fact that there are now two kids out there without a father, the fact that I put my entire _career _on the line for Caffrey and he ran out the second I had my back turned?"

"I think it does." Mozzie said calmly, and El put a hand on her leg, her signal for him to calm down before he did something he would regret.

Peter bit his lip before he let the other words spill out of him. At work, he was known as the one who was calm even as buildings crumbled around him, calm when stings went south and hostages were involved and lives were on the line. Why was it that Caffrey always brought out the emotional side of him, the side that could be compromised so easily?

For years he had rejected anyone who had tried to partner with him. He worked alone, or he worked with agents under him, and that was it. No exceptions. He knew of partnerships that worked out well – more than a few, in fact, and he knew that lifelong friendships were made out of working the beat with a guy for years on the job. But he couldn't allow himself to become one of those people.

He'd seen a man run into the middle of a bank robbery to save his partner, seen one dash into a burning building, another one literally took a bullet to the chest. Peter knew that, with El, his best friend, the love of his life, waiting at home, there was no way he could do that for someone else, and how could he ask another man to do what he refused to?

Neal had changed all that. Peter would never admit to El or anyone else the effect the younger man had on him. Suddenly he felt vulnerable, protective of this smooth, charismatic, silver-tongued con. Protective like a man felt for his partner…like a father felt for his son.

The pain in his heart when he'd found that memo could not be summed up in things as simple as words. Betrayal combined with terrible disappointment, and Peter didn't know if he could feel that again without going crazy.

If he looked into this affair and it turned out, after everything, that Caffrey was a traitor and a coward, that his flight and inaction had caused another man to die…well, Burke could do without that disappointment in his life.

"But what if you're wrong?"

Peter jerked his head up until his eyes met Mozzie's, almost totally obscured behind his glasses. He raised an incredulous eyebrow – did the man just read his mind? – and Mozzie could offer only a half-shrug in reply, eyes still totally serious. "What if you're wrong?" Mozzie repeated.

"I'm not. Once a criminal, always a criminal." That was years of FBI talking, not Peter Burke, but the words were out there and he couldn't take them back, even when he felt El pull her hand away as if burnt by his harsh words.

And suddenly Mozzie's eyes flashed with anger and indignation. His hands, which had been tapping a nervous rhythm on the folder, lay flat and eerily still. "You don't get to say that about Neal. He's a good man and I think you know that. You know exactly who Neal is."

Except Peter didn't, did he? The Neal he thought he was coming to know wouldn't have gone out of his two-mile radius days after Peter left.

"If you don't do this, I'll break him out myself. I can do it easy, and we'll run and even you will never be able to find him." Mozzie pushed himself away from the table, leaving the folder behind, a parting gift that Peter may not deserve. "He's too good to rot in jail, and I won't let him. You shouldn't, either."

Peter stared at the folder as Mozzie fled the kitchen, the door slamming shut after him as he bled into the night. This must be what that guy meant about woods diverging in a yellow wood.

He could forget about the folder, throw in the trash and gently convince El that they were better off without a young con in their life. He could go to the Bureau and eat crow and say that he should have never taken an art thief to investigate art thieves. He could forget about the handsome young man he'd chased for years and attend that policeman's funeral and put the last six months out of his mind.

Or he could open the folder, which could lead…anywhere. To long nights and hard questions, to an answer that he may or may not want to ever find out for himself. He could find Caffrey guilty…or he may uncover corruption within the walls of the Bureau that he wanted so badly to believe was never above the law.

El was mercifully silent. Peter didn't think he could take it if she chimed in now, as he stared at the folder. It came down to the difference between the easy decision and the hard one.

Let no man ever say that Peter Burke, FBI, was afraid to get his hands dirty. He took a deep breath and pulled the folder to him, aware of El letting out a breath of her own as she lay her head on Peter's shoulder to look at the contents of the folder.

And there, on the first page, was something that made Peter know he'd made the right decision, something that made him get up right then and call Jones to ask him to start digging _now_, they had a con to free.

Because on that first page was a weather report for the night Caffrey was supposed to be involved in that sting. Circled in damning red ink was the temperature for Manhattan which had hovered, on the early January night when Peter had been soaking up the rays, right around two degrees below zero.

**.***.**

**Wow ya'll. The number of reviews for just one chapter was staggering. Hope you can enjoy this chapter before the new episode comes on tonight.**


	3. Discover

_"Always the innocent are the first victims. So it has been for ages past, so it is now." **Harry Potter**_****

.***.

Peter was out the door at six o'clock in the morning, kissing a still-sleeping El on the way out. He had to go, he had to talk to Neal and say…something…to mitigate what he'd said on their last meeting.

The whole drive it just kept spinning in his head. What if Neal didn't trust him? What could Peter do about that, after the six months they'd just been through trying to worm trust out of the other one? He couldn't deny that he'd sided with the Bureau over Neal in an instant, hadn't even listened to his side of the story.

And what about his side? The evidence against Neal was damning, and Peter was going to be ruffling a lot of feathers if he looked into this any further, especially since he was doing it on behalf of a criminal. White Collar was the most hospitable place for Neal – the rest of the FBI didn't take too kindly to the notion that they were catching thieves with a thief.

Peter tried to formulate a plan, but by seven o'clock he was outside the penitentiary and he still had nothing, nada, zip to say to the young man in there waiting for him. He'd just have to wing it when he saw Caffrey again.

The woman at the front desk had obviously just started her shift and raised a severe eyebrow at Peter's early entrance. "Weren't you just in here yesterday? Got somethin' more to say to your pet criminal?"

"Couple more things, yeah." Peter said hastily, drawing out the necessary documentation that would allow Neal to be released. "Just bring him out here. I still need to get to the office."

"Sure, sure." The woman said, nodding to a burly man who went down the hallway towards the cells.

Peter shifted from foot to foot, trying to come up with a plan of attack for the day. How many people should know about his digging into Organized Crime failed sting? He definitely couldn't work on it during office hours…accusing another department of something like mistreating an operative, even if it was a criminal on loan, would be scandalous.

The heavy door slid back and Peter saw Neal for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, but his attitude towards the young man could not be any different. Could it be that his animosity against Neal at his first meeting had made him blind? It must have, because Peter just barely suppressed a growl of rage at the sight of the young man's battered, pale body.

Neal didn't even lift his eyes to meet his, and when the guard pushed him slightly to go to Peter Neal stumbled into him and winced as Peter grabbed his shoulder. "Sorry." Caffrey muttered, straightening himself. He still looked like the most pitiful creature in the world, pale and shivering, bruises contrasting harshly against too-white skin.

"Where's your coat? Your stuff?" Peter asked, touching Neal's shoulder. He was surprised (though perhaps he shouldn't have been) when Neal jumped at his touch, the movement causing him to cough loudly.

"Don't have a coat…" Neal said, and those brilliant blue eyes finally met Peter's, and they held a little of that old defiance the FBI agent used to hate so much and now longed to see again. "Don't you…know?" His words were punctuated by more coughs, and Peter shook his head, shrugging out of his warm overcoat and draping it over Caffrey's shoulders where it hung, much too big for his slight frame.

"You lost weight." Peter said, anger coloring his voice so the words came out more like an accusation. Neal flinched again but didn't deny this. Couldn't deny it, because the bones of his face were sticking out too sharply against his cheeks, because his shoulders and hip were jutting out of his clothes painfully.

"Can we go?" Neal said, and the voice that was never anything other than calm and collected was pleading. "Please, Peter, can we go?"

"Sure, sure."

They were out of Riker's and halfway to the office before normally garrulous Neal spoke again. "_Where_ are we going?"

"To the office. You're still my consultant." Peter had meant this to be comforting, and he was even awkwardly planning on using it as a segue into an apology that he knew he should be giving for his words the day before, but again the tone was wrong, the timing off, and "your still my consultant" turned into a possessive sentence, a firm reminder that Neal wasn't in charge of his own fate at all.

Before his five days with Organized Crime and fifteen days at Riker's, he would have said what he really thought: that he felt like crap, and could he please have this day off. But now Neal was seized with the fear that Peter believed everything the FBI was saying about him, that he would make good on his threats and throw Neal back in prison at his next minor transgression. And Neal wasn't sure he'd survive going in there again. He'd barely survived the last couple of weeks.

But never before had Neal felt like this at the prospect of walking into FBI headquarters, not now that he knew that there was at least one division, Organized Crime, that didn't give a rat's ass whether he was alive or dead. That didn't really think his life mattered at all.

"We're going to talk tonight, Neal." Peter promised before leaving Caffrey at his desk, anklet firmly in place, wearing the same suit he'd been arrested in. "El's making dinner and invited Mozzie…you can tell me everything."

Neal found himself actively fearing the prospect of telling everything about the last three weeks to Peter Burke, a man he respected so much, a man who had walked out on him the day before with only half the story, not caring that Neal was sick and hurt and depressed. And today! Today, when he was worse, when his lungs ached and he was coughing more than ever and his food was stolen, again, and those guys had roughed him up, again, all before Peter came to collect him in the early morning…today Peter still hadn't cared, hadn't asked about any of the injuries or the cough, had acted as if Neal was whole and laughing, as if Neal was fine.

He rubbed his neck and stared blankly at the stack of cases waiting on his desk, oblivious from the slaps on the back he received from Jones and Diana and the other people on White Collar's floor. He couldn't remember feeling so trapped in his life.

.***.

It was a mercifully slow day for White Collar, with little to do but fill out overdue paperwork. And look into the surprisingly shady business Organized Crime was investigating.

Peter knew that he should have said something more to Neal. Something about being glad Neal was okay, about believing that Neal was innocent, about the fact that he noticed the scars and the shaking and the coughs and he wasn't going to let that go unpunished. That just because Neal used to be a criminal didn't mean he deserved to be treated like that.

At the very least he should have said that he was sorry about the night before, about scaring Neal half to death and walking out, threatening, and almost believing, that he wasn't going to come back into Neal's life ever again.

Now, though, he'd let the whole day tick by, and hadn't even talked to Caffrey once. He'd look out onto the floor and see Neal at his desk, looking at the files and rubbing his forehead and shaking. He saw Jones drape his coat around Neal's shoulders and cursed himself for not thinking that, perhaps, Neal would have been better, much better, off at home.

He'd wanted so badly to smooth this over, to rush headlong into them being partners again, that he hadn't thought about the immediate repercussions, about the fact that before forgiveness there had to be an apology. Peter brought Neal straight to the FBI office because he thought that if Neal was back in his old setting it would be like old times.

When Peter went over to Neal's desk at five o'clock to drive him home and found the younger man sleeping, Jones's coat wrapped tight around him and shivering despite all that, Peter knew that old times would be much harder to come by.

"Neal." Peter said, pitching his voice low. Asleep, the young man looked younger, tinier somehow, and he jerked suddenly and sharply when Peter touched his shoulder. Jerk wasn't really the word, either. Shook, cringed, then pulled away with a tight, tense expression. Expecting a blow.

And Peter knew at that instant, seeing the terrified, pale, disoriented Caffrey in front of him, that he couldn't go home and have dinner with his wife and ask subtle questions. This was a whole different monster, one that needed to be tackled between two men and a six pack for him and wine for Neal, and perhaps a full-body scan to make sure the con wasn't going to drop on him the next second because, yes, he looked _that_ bad.

"C'mon, Neal." Peter said, pulling Caffrey up from under his armpits despite his bad flinch. They'd address that later, and they'd address it in detail, and Peter would have more than a few words to say to Organized Crime if what he was suspecting now was true. "We're going home."

"Elizabeth is cooking?" Neal murmured, having enough presence of mind to leave a short thank-you not to Jones in his beautiful calligraphy, promising to return the coat the next day. "I knew I loved that woman."

"Hands off." Peter growled playfully, but even this harsh tone in the name of fun made Neal tense under his arm. He lowered his voice again, marveling at the fact that Neal had gotten through the day at all. He was dripping off Peter's arm with exhaustion, shaking, pale coughing… "And we're not going to my home. We're going to yours."

Neal nodded, and Peter saw the first true smile grace the man's face. "That sounds great, Peter."

It was the last thing he said before he passed out quietly in the elevator.

**.***.**

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	4. Discussion

_"When you find yourself lost in the darkness of despair, remember, it is only in the black of the night that you see the stars, and those stars lead you back home." **One Tree Hill**_

.***.

Neal regained consciousness in the car, his head leaning against the mercifully cool window. Although it was hovering somewhere around sixteen degrees, and he'd been shivering all day, his head was hot and muddled and the throbbing headache seemed like it could only be soothed by the cold.

"Hey." Peter said, reaching out to pat his leg when he noticed Neal's open eyes, and the con did his absolute best not to flinch. "You scared me back there."

There were so many things Neal wanted to say, and if he were a different person with anything other than his normal, laid-back personality, he probably would have begun yelling at Peter this morning, right after he'd gotten out of Rikers. What had changed between yesterday and today? Because last night Neal had been sure, quite sure, that Peter was never going to come back into his life. What did Peter know, or think he knew? And, most of all, he wanted to know if this man was on his side, if he trusted him…or was against him.

But instead the words he managed to choke out were completely different. "I'm fine." He said, proud that he was able to get those words out with little trouble. "Really, Pete, it's no big…" But even he couldn't finish the lie, so he just shrugged and went back to staring out the window.

What were his options here? Peter was being so…strange, so aloof. He hadn't talked to Neal all day, and now he was acting as if he'd never been away at all, as if it was a month ago and Neal was a conman and a rascal, and Peter was the man trying to keep him in line.

He could spill his guts, rat on the Organized Crime Division, and Peter might even believe him, might even investigate. But that was looking a whole lot less probable than the FBI agent just turning around and throwing him back in prison. After all, the phony operation Neal had been on had gotten a cop killed, right? And why would Peter side with him over the whole of NYC's protection forces? He'd just buy a one-way ticket back to Rikers…and he was sure that he wouldn't get out of there alive this time.

Peter had to almost pull him out of the car – suddenly, every hurt Neal had sustained these past three weeks had come back to him, and he was limp and pained as almost every part of his body throbbed in unison.

"You'll have to get the key." Neal managed through clenched teeth. "June's gone until the end of February…went to Madrid with her daughter."

"Well, at least one of us is someplace warm." Peter said, slipping his hand into Neal's back pocket, and it was testament to just how bad Neal was feeling that he didn't make a crack about Peter buying him dinner first. He felt a flicker of concern when he thought of Neal with Organized Crime breathing down his neck and not even a kind face to come home to.

The journey up to Neal's rented room was hard, and twice Neal muffled a scream that Peter heard anyway. He could see the young con's health deteriorating before his eyes and wished fervently that he'd brought the man straight to El or even Mozzie after springing him from the penitentiary.

"Go home, Peter." Neal said after the FBI deposited on the bed as gently as he was able. "I'm fine to do this by myself."

"Like hell you are. You're black and blue all over and you're sick to boot. What is it? Pneumonia?"

"Don't be melodramatic Peter." Neal chastised softly. Then he shrugged, seemingly unable to keep up even a hint of deception. "Rikers said it's bronchitis."

"I'm sure that's making your ribs feel great." At Neal's too-innocent expression, Peter snorted, "You think I don't know what busted ribs sound like? Don't raise your arm like that, Neal, it'll only make it hurt worse. Here…"

But as Peter reached forward to help Neal out of his dripping clothes, the younger man flinched away from the unexpected touch, putting his hand over his face as if to shield himself from a blow.

There was a second, two, when nothing happened, when Peter just stared at the man shivering on the bed and knew that this would be worse than he thought, when Neal remained stationary, locked in the all-too-recent memories of other men looming over him to take off his clothes.

Then he snapped out of it. Lowered his arm and sat up as straight as three broken and two bruised ribs would let him. "Sorry." He murmured, embarrassed at his reaction, embarrassed at the fact that having another man, a bigger man, in the room with him was making him this damn frightened. "I didn't…I don't know why…"

"You're going to change out of those clothes." Peter said, standing up and moving away from the bed, all the while wishing that he could say words of comfort, or friendship, rather than the harsh, clipped orders that came out of his mouth. Why couldn't he change this? "You're going to put on something warm. And then you're going to tell me why the Organized Crime Division accused you of cutting off your anklet and running out on a sting to bring down one of the biggest drug lords in the city."

Neal opened his mouth to say…something. Something to mend the rift that was suddenly between him and a man he'd thought was his partner. Something to get that cold tone out of Peter's voice. Or maybe he opened his mouth to yell for one of the first times in his life, to accuse the FBI of endangering his life with the sting, with putting him back in a place full of people who knew he was a pet of the FBI.

But nothing like that came out. Peter watched as Neal's eyes shuttered closed, as he seemed to collapse in on himself. "Fine." And then Neal pulled his soaking shirt off, revealing a body that was more black and blue than pale white, a body that also had small cuts and larger ones, full of hand-prints and nail scratches and even a bruise that couldn't have been made by anything other than a baseball bat.

Peter saw this, and wanted, more than ever before, to say something sympathetic, to help the man with bandages and cool compresses or at least offer him Aspirin. Instead, he pressed his lips together and walked out of the room before he could see the betrayal and disappointment written all over Neal's face.

.***.

Neal was coughing badly by the time he started his story, which was only after a long, blissfully hot shower and a steaming cup of tea sitting across from a stone cold FBI agent.

He'd thought it over in the shower and had steeled himself. This was the only course of action he could take, because he didn't think he could bear to see the disappointment in Peter's eyes again. "I'm resigning."

"You can't resign."

"Send me back to prison, then. I don't care. I don't want to work for the FBI anymore." His chest constricted painfully and it had nothing to do with his busted ribs and everything to do with the lie he'd just told. Because he did want to work for the FBI, more than anything. He just wanted to work for the FBI he was working for weeks ago.

"I'm not going to do that. I can't send a man to his death in good conscience." Neal looked up quickly, because these words were almost compassionate, looked up just in time to see a flicker of sympathetic pain flash across Peter's face. It was that one glimmer, that hope that, maybe, there was a part of Peter that was willing to listen to a con-man's story over the one reported by his own FBI, that made Neal launch into his story.

"After you left, I agreed to go down to Organized Crime." Neal said, knowing that that sounded better than _I was commandeered by Organized Crime, because I'm really no more than a slave caught between being thrown in prison and helping out the people who put me there_. He coughed, and Peter's face hardened again, and he hurried to continue, "They'd been planning on taking down Starks for months. They just needed someone unobtrusive enough to get into the gang, someone who looked nothing like an FBI agent. Someone who already had some street credit, even if it was pulling cons, not triggers.

"So I went." He coughed again, and then again, and he couldn't stop for thirty seconds, trying fruitlessly to hold back tears of pain. When he came up for air again, Peter's smooth, impassive face felt like a punch in the gut. Didn't the agent feel anything for him anymore? Was he anything more than a tool, a means to an end? Before Riker's he'd thought he was, thought that he and Peter might be friends…now, though…

"I was supposed to meet with a guy who knew a guy who knew Starks – you know how these big mafia guys always have ten layers of protection around them – but it was…Peter, I think it was a trap. For me. There's circles that hate me, you know. People I've stolen things from…and Starks was one of them. It was a long time ago and I didn't know he held grudges, so I didn't see the harm…"

"What happened, Neal? Spit it out."

Neal winced involuntarily at the words and hurried on, tripping over words as they came out in his low, hoarse voice. "I was there for hours, with only my suit jacket. It was two degrees that night, and it was so windy I would have sworn up and down it was ten below. I kept saying over the radio that we must have been found out, and that's why the guy wasn't at the rendezvous, but they kept insisting that it was okay, just a little bit longer.

"And then eventually they did come, but not the guy we were after, not the guy who gave me an "in" to the ring. It was Butler."

"Didn't you steal something from him in Morocco?"

"I swear you know my history better than I do, Peter." And for a second Neal smiled at the agent, forgetting what had happened these past weeks and only imagining Peter as his friend. And for a second, less, Peter smiled back, something like concern hidden in his detached eyes, and Neal's confidence surged. He could get through this story; get through the agonizing embarrassment of a formal report, if only he knew he could have Peter's friendship again. He didn't expect trust – Peter had reasons enough not to trust him. But friendship, or camaraderie…Neal yearned for that more than anything else.

"Anyway." Neal hurried on to cover the silence that fell after the concern left Peter's eyes. "Butler was with some…some other men. I was frozen to the bone, and the alley I was in was so much darker than it had been hours before. The radio wasn't working, and when I ran around the corner the van had disappeared."

"A trap." Peter said, eyes narrowing. "A con for a con." And concern was replaced with fire and anger, anger on Neal's behalf, which spurred him on.

"They must have been planning it from the beginning. I think…I like to think that they wouldn't have let it go on so long, that perhaps the trap would have been spring before any of them had a chance to…but I might have been dead by then, Peter. I ran. They caught up to me."

"The bruises…the broken bones." Now it wasn't just an illusion of concern but the real thing, and Peter's hand was on Neal's, mercifully warm and comforting.

"A couple came from then, I guess." Neal said evasively. "But the first thing they did was cut my anklet. They must have known I had it on."

Peter's heart clenched at this news. So Neal wasn't guilty of it, of any of it. Not even cutting his anklet. And Peter had jumped down his throat, and been so _awful_ to him all day. "Neal…" He began, because even he knew when an apology was due, and he owed Neal a heck of an "I'm sorry."

"Peter, if I don't finish this I'm going to have nightmares." Neal said, and his tone wasn't even bitter, wasn't hard at all. Just tired, and sad, and low, and Peter squeezed Neal's hand, knowing that he'd have to do more than that, so much more.

"So they cut the anklet." Neal continued, "And I tried to fight but…I'm not good at that stuff, Pete. I've always thought that if I just knew self-defense…so they got some shots in. That's when I got the hip thing."

_What hip thing? _Peter thought frantically, and then remembered the black and blue mottled mess on Neal's left side. Thinking back, Peter had a sinking, terrible suspicion that those were the markings of a broken hip.

"I managed to get a couple of lucky punches in. Bit the guy who had his hand over my mouth, too. Which was gross, by the way." Peter smiled as he recognized some of Neal's old fire. "And I…I ran. I couldn't find the FBI. They'd already ratted me out. My anklet was cut and…Peter, I was so cold. I kept tripping over my own feet because they were numb. I found a 24 hour coffee shop and stayed there. I was sore, and tired, and I wasn't even sure I could move. The manager didn't ask any questions. Not even when Organized Crime caught up to me."

"And then threw you in Rikers for running." This wasn't a question, and the steel in Peter's voice was obvious. "So were you ever after Starks at all?"

"I guess in a way they were. Maybe they were hoping that if they gave me over, as a show of faith, someone would cave and sell information in return for immunity."

"Give a little to get a little?" Peter guessed. This was the way he often worked: offering plea bargains and immunity in exchange for information on a higher target. "So that cop…"

"It wasn't my fault, Peter. I was in Rikers. I was afraid…well, when you showed up yesterday, I thought I'd stay there forever."

"Aw, hell." Peter said, rubbing his neck distractedly. "I'm sorry about that, Neal. I just got back and there was this memo that said your anklet was cut and you'd run."

"It was true." Neal murmured, not daring to look at Peter, not daring to hope that this may be an olive branch, that there may peace between them. "That's why Hughes didn't look into it. I think he would have if it weren't true, but I didn't have my anklet, and I didn't get any time to explain myself."

"Still." Peter said, feeling righteous indignation boil hot in his chest. "To throw you in Rikers while you were hurt like _this_." He gestured to Neal's bruised and battered body, and the young con reddened.

"I told you, Peter, most of this wasn't from that night." But his tone said that he wouldn't tell Peter their true origins. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Perhaps he knew how guilty he would make Peter feel with more of Neal's pains on his conscience.

Peter still didn't know what he'd do with this information. Could he, a dedicated agent, go against the FBI? Could he side with a con man? Would he, even if it meant stirring up a can of worms, if it meant the possibility of losing his job?

He looked across the table at Neal, sick and beaten, the charismatic grin gone from his face. He looked tired, discouraged. Helpless to go against the powers at work against him. And Peter knew, in that instant, that this really wasn't his choice to make. He could let an innocent man (or, at least, a man innocent of this particular crime) become the scapegoat for all of NYC. He couldn't disappoint Neal like that again.

**.***.**

**We may not have White Collar every week, but I think that means we should be stepping up our fanfiction output, or else face serious Neal and Peter withdrawl.**

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	5. Disadvantage

_What was Right? What was Wrong? What distinguished Doing from Not Doing? If I were to have my time again, the old King thought, I would bury myself in a monastery for fear of a Doing which might lead to woe. **T. H. White**_

.***.

Peter and Neal had reached a tentative peace by the time they left for lunch the next day. Peter had started the morning off by trying to get Neal to, first, the hospital, and then to El, and then, finally, asking him to please stay home, because Neal looked like death only slightly warmed over.

"I'm fine, Peter. I'm not going to run away from this." The night of sleep in a warm bed with real sheets and a real mattress (without the fear of being attacked while he slept) had done Neal a world of good, and he was well enough to be embarrassed by the events of the previous evening. "Look, I'm sorry for passing out in the elevator. I was just a little hungry."

Peter looked at him sharply. "You ate something for breakfast, right?"

"Sure." A cup of coffee counted, right? Plus he'd managed to find a granola bar in the cabinet. With June gone and him not being there for three weeks, most of the food he kept around had either soured or spoilt (except the wine, but Neal knew his limits, and wine would just make him even more woozy than he would be anyway)

After a few tense seconds, Peter relented, leading the way to his car, promising himself that he would buy Neal lunch and make sure he ate all of it. He didn't like the bruises or the welts, but it was the sharp planes of Neal's face, and the memory of his hips, jutting harshly against his skin, that made Peter's blood boil. And it was that same memory that made him plunge head-first into the sordid past of the Organized Crime division.

They were lucky that they didn't catch a case, not then or all week, because Peter was so incensed over the brutal treatment of his favorite con artist that he couldn't think straight, and definitely wouldn't have been able to keep his mind on a case. By the time he went to collect Neal for lunch (Neal, who was looking over cold cases with Jones, who was smiling and putting up a good act so people would forget about the bruises that stood stark against his white skin) he'd gotten pretty good idea about Organized Crime. They were smart. They'd known full well what they were doing.

"Turns out, Organized Crime's been in contact with your buddy Butler for a few weeks before they got a hold of you. They knew I was going on vacation. They knew that if they asked Hughes, he'd lend you to them if it meant bringing down Starks."

"That makes me sound like luggage, being passed around from department to department." Neal commented, but his voice was light and anything but bitter. Neal didn't indulge in being bitter very often. "But you can see their reasoning. A known criminal is a small price to pay for an in to the biggest drug trafficker in the city."

"Your life is not a price to pay for anything." Peter said quietly, and Neal's face colored at this unexpected sentiment. They stopped at a café in the middle of Manhattan, one that Peter knew had the biggest subs in the city, and he made Neal order one and watched as he devoured the whole thing, attacking the food with the gusto of a starving man.

When his phone rang in his hip pocket, Peter didn't want to leave, had no intention of disturbing the careful peace between him and Neal. But the con waved him away with his oil-stained hand, still eating heartily, and Peter ended up leaving the table with a smile, thinking that when he came back he'd find that half of his sub had been "mysteriously" eaten. And he didn't think he would mind.

He went around the corner and sat on the bench there, hands on his knees, thinking, for the first time since he'd gotten back from the Keys, that everything might just work out right after all.

.***.

Neal hadn't been hungry before, even though he hadn't had a halfway decent meal since before Rikers. He'd been too sick, first, and then, as time passed without any contact from Peter, too anxious to eat much of anything (and the environment he was in was not exactly conducive to a healthy appetite). So this sub was something to be relished.

He was just trying to figure out if he should take Peter's whole sub or just half when a shadow literally fell over his plate. The first thing he thought when he looked up was that it was a pretty big oversight of Peter to bring him to a place if it was a cop hang-out (and, now that he looked around, there _were_ an awful lot of boys in blue here). The second thing he thought, with a hint of dread, was that maybe Peter didn't believe him after all (because, really, he had basically made a living off of lies) and had brought him here, ditched him here, because he _knew_ it was a cop hang-out.

The third thing he thought was that, for so many cops around, there seemed to be no law here, because beating up a guy in the middle of his lunch must surely be illegal. Right?

Neal fell into a familiar half-reality of pain. This is where he'd spent most of his time while at Rikers, hung out to dry in a place filled with criminals who knew that he'd played the part of a pet for the FBI, who knew that he had gone over to the other side. His mind disconnected as soon as this cop punched him square in the face.

"Johnny Gavin was my partner, you son of a bitch." He said, voice like steel. There were more hands now, grabbing his shoulders, holding him in place, and Neal felt an all-too familiar panic well up inside him. He bucked desperately against the restraining arms as blow upon blow fell on his face, his torso, his arms.

Just when Neal began seeing the welcoming blackness on the outside of his vision, about to slip into merciful oblivion, the hands that held him suddenly disappeared. Once he was released, there was nothing to keep him from sliding to the ground, gasping, trying desperately to get breath back into his body.

Above him, he could sense movement, colors, shouting, and groaned, trying to remember a time when his entire body wasn't in pain.

.***.

Peter lingered on the phone for longer than he had to, grinning to himself at the thought of Neal sneaking half of his sandwich. He knew that, eventually, he would have to drive home the point that he was sorry for his part in Neal's injuries, sorry for his cold demeanor and initial distrust. But the fact that Neal was out with him at all, the fact that the man still kept up the façade that everything was normal, heartened him. Perhaps their partnership wasn't ruined after all.

He didn't go back around the corner until the cops had already gotten a few good shots in. "Hey!" He bellowed, running forward. It was a cop part of town, a cop bar, which was their first mistake. Cops take care of their own.

One of the guys had Caffrey's shirt balled in his fist, his other hand drawn back, prepared for a blow, the very picture of a beating. "What?" The guy asked, as if he didn't care about Neal, bleeding and cowering in front of him. "I thought you'd've wanted us to do this, too. This scum got off too easy."

"He killed my partner." Another cop reasoned, and all the cops who had stopped by this bar between shifts promptly went back to eating. They understood the sanctity of partnerships.

Peter rushed forward, gripped the cop by the shoulder, and threw him to the ground. Neal crumpled on the sidewalk now that the hand that was holding him disappeared. Peter wasn't finished with the officer though – he loomed over him, glaring around at the other three, who all had their hands balled into fists.

"I heard about your partner," Peter began, breathing hard, trying to quell the instinct to drop to his knees beside Neal and check on him right _now_. "And I'm sorry, I truly am, but _my_ partner, this man," he gestured to Neal, passed out cold on the freezing ground, "Had nothing to do with his death. There were mistakes on all sides, but Neal Caffrey was only trying to do the right thing."

As the words slipped from his mouth, too loud in the sudden silence of mid-winter, Peter realized the truth in them. Yesterday, he'd been too overwhelmed by the sudden flipping of the situation that he really hadn't taken the time to actually sit down and sympathize with Neal. Neal, who had really done nothing but try to do the right thing all along. He'd tried to get along with Organized Crime, because that's what he thought Peter wanted. He'd tried to tell Peter that the facts had been skewed by a crooked division leader. He'd tried to "cowboy up" and get through what must have been an agonizing day yesterday, because he knew that Peter expected it from him.

And he'd been innocent all along.

"You're seriously taking the side of a criminal?" One of the cops said, voice hard and low, and Peter knew that there could be a blood feud between the FBI and NYPD over this.

"I'm on the right side." Peter said quietly, officially throwing his lot in with Neal, officially trusting the con. The cops shook their heads and raged quietly at him, but there were too many witnesses, and it was too cold a day, to gang up on him here and now.

Peter knelt next to Neal, thinking that now he had both the FBI and NYPD gunning for his blood. At this moment, though, on the windy streets of the city, it didn't matter. All that mattered was a young, hurt ex-criminal who had tried his damndest to turn over a new leaf and was met with pain and resentment for his efforts.

"Aw, Hell." Peter said, running a hand through his hair. Neal was officially unconscious now, and with his injuries (old and new) Peter knew that he wouldn't be functional anytime soon. "You got the worst luck, kid."

He cocked his head to the side, planning out how to move Neal from this frozen street to somewhere where he could get help. Finally, Peter whipped out his cell phone, made the appropriate calls, and waited, one hand on Neal's shoulder, the other on his leg, hoping that he wasn't too late to salvage the trust of a criminal.

**.*****

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	6. Disillusion

_Westley closed his eyes. There was pain coming and he had to be ready for it. He had to prepare his brain, he had to get his mind controlled and safe from their efforts, so that they could not break him. **The Princess Bride**_

.***.

"A broken wrist, four broken ribs, a sprained ankle, a dislocated shoulder that had been popped in badly and had to be reset – I think that's the only time he actually screamed, El – bruising and welts from something like a whip or a belt, a badly bruised hip, and multiple smaller contusions." Peter put his hands flat against the counter, breathing hard. There was something else, too, but Neal would be angry enough that Peter had found out. He wouldn't want his dirty laundry out in the open for all to see.

"How did he manage to _walk_?" El asked, rubbing soft circles on her husband's shoulder. "How did he manage to stand up?"

"Why didn't he tell me it was that bad?" Peter asked out loud, hand curling into a fist below him. "I would have taken him to the hospital right away, not wait two days for him to get beat up. Again."

"At least he got the help that he needed." El reminded him, "Even if it was a bit late. What I'm worried about now is getting our other guest to leave."

Peter had brought Neal directly to the hospital after the con was attacked at the cop bar, and only some serious begging on Neal's part had stopped Peter from pressing charges. "I don't need to give them another reason to hate me." Neal pointed out, "And you gotta see it their way, Peter. One of their own died, and according to the FBI I was part of a sting that failed to bring the guy down before that happened."

It was against Peter's nature to just let things like this go, but Neal had looked so pathetic, blood oozing from a wound on his head (no concussion, thank God), holding his arm awkwardly, face pale and drawn, that he hadn't pressed the point. He wouldn't file charges if that's what Neal wanted.

The doctor who checked Neal over was used to working with Peter, had patched him up after some cases gone awry. He was the go-to guy for the FBI, because he was the best. But even seasoned Dr. Ron Watling felt sick looking at the new criminal consultant, the one who now most closely resembled a lump of ground beef.

And never before, not even in the worst beating, had he seen injuries like these. Broken bones left untreated that had started healing wrong. A dislocated shoulder that must have been excruciatingly painful, because after he fixed it, put the ball back in the socket, after the man keened in pain, tears running down his mangled face, he'd turned to Watling and thanked him.

"It doesn't look good, Agent Burke." Watling said. They were looking into the room now, watching as a nurse cleaned and wrapped the long welts on Neal's back. "There's evidence of abuse starting about a month ago. Continued abuse."

"He's been at Riker's for a couple of weeks. I didn't know it was this bad." Peter leaned against the door, eyes never leaving Neal's bruised face.

"Well, that explains these results." Watling opened the file, scanning it even though he already knew what it said. Sometimes it was easier not to look at people when you gave them this kind of news. "There's evidence of rape, Agent Burke. It's about a week old."

He didn't have to look at Peter to see his face harden, to feel his mouth drop open. "Neal? Somebody raped Neal?"

It was a running joke in the hospital that Watling, middle-aged and kindly, like everyone's favorite uncle, was always the last one to get the simplest concepts, but even Watling could piece together what would happen if a good-looking, turncoat criminal was thrown back into the lion's den.

"I don't know what he was imprisoned for, Agent Burke." Watling said at length, closing the file shut and running a hand through his hair. He needed a stiff drink. "But whatever it was, I think it's safe to say he's paid for his crime."

"You can say that again, doc." Peter said, still staring at Neal's dark mop of hair.

Watling was about to walk away when he remembered, "You'll need to bring him back in ten to fourteen days. That's when the test will be back."

"Which test?" Peter asked. There had been so many of them – X-Rays and MRIs and CAT scans – he wanted to at least try to remember them all.

"It's hospital policy to check for STDs when there's evidence of sexual abuse, because the risk of contracting HIV increases astronomically." Watling turned to go again, paused again, "I'm truly sorry, Agent Burke. Even if the FBI says he's a criminal, he seems like a good man."

"He is." Peter croaked, trying desperately to assemble his face so that Neal, who had looked up to lock eyes with him through the window, wouldn't know anything was wrong at all.

.***.

El's dire predictions that Mozzie wouldn't leave Neal's side while he stayed at the Burke's residence convalescing proved unfounded.

"I can't get out of this operation. If four other men weren't counting on me to…to do something to some building somewhere in the city…" he cast a quick glance at Peter, who pretended he didn't hear, "Then I'd stay with Neal."

"I'm sure he appreciated having him with you this afternoon." El said, smiling. "Do you want something for the road? Biscuit? Cookie? Apple tart?" Mozzie's eyebrows raised at the variety of sweets that sprawled across the Burkes' counters, "What? I bake when I'm upset."

"Thank you, Mrs. Suit." Mozzie said, taking a handful of snickerdoodles and melting out the door, leaving the couple and Neal alone.

"Why don't you go up to him, honey?" El suggested, wrapping her arms round Peter's waist and kissing his neck. "I know he wants to see you."

"Why? Why would he want to see me? Why would he trust me after all this? I didn't even notice he was hurt!" Peter pulled himself away from his wife, pacing the tiny kitchen nervously.

"He adores you." El reminded him. "He respects you. He looks up to you. And he's probably upstairs hoping that you don't think him less of a man now that you know how hurt he was."

Leave it to El to make him feel guiltier. He'd been focusing on himself, on how Neal would view them, on their tenuous friendship. What Neal must be feeling, up in the guest bedroom alone and injured, not even given the dignity of independence and privacy, because Watling had strict orders for him not to be alone.

"Why do you have to be so right all the time?" Peter asked, leaving down to plant a kiss on his wife's lips.

She smiled, jerking her head to the stairway. "Go on. I'll be up in a few minutes with some food. Poor Neal looks like he hasn't been fed in a week."

Malnutrition. Peter winced when he remembered another one of Watling's diagnostics, remembering the ravenous look on Neal's face when they sat down for lunch – was it only eight hours ago?

He took a deep breath outside of the guest room door, trying to compose himself before he knocked once and pushed open the door.

Leave it to Neal to make getting over a severe beating (several severe beatings) look glamorous. Mozzie had obviously brought over his favorite hat, and even in an old T-shirt of Peter's, with bandages wrapped around various body parts, not to mention a cast on his wrist, Neal looked like a fifties movie star, if fifties movie stars had been twenty pounds underweight.

He was on his side, staring out the window, but he twisted and smiled wanly at Peter. "Hey, Peter." He said, putting a hand on Peter's knee when the older man sat on the edge of his bed. "I never got to say thank you."

Peter pulled away then, unable to stand contact from this man who should not, under any circumstances, be thanking him. It was he who'd ignored his obvious pain for so long, he who'd walked out of the jail, left him in that Hell-hole for another night, because he'd proclaimed the ex-criminal guilty without a trial, without even giving him the chance to defend himself.

"Peter," If you heard Neal's voice over a phone, from the other side of a door, you'd never know he'd just been through the wringer, never know that he'd been beaten regularly for weeks. "Peter, what's wrong?"

Then his reaching hand suddenly dropped onto the bedspread, the fingers slack, inches from Peter's pant leg. His face shuttered closed, but not before Peter saw the dominant emotion that flickered across his face: embarrassment. "You know." Neal muttered, not meeting Peter's eyes. "They told you at the hospital."

"I'm so sorry, Neal." For so many things. For going away to begin with, for agreeing to lend him to Organized Crime, for passing him around like luggage, for taking the Bureau's side on the whole matter, for leaving him in jail, for not going to the hospital right away, for being so cold to him the night before, for not being there when the cops attacked him. And for the pain Neal had suffered through in Riker's, this brutal attack that was so agonizing for the victims because, always, the first emotion they felt was embarrassment, shame, as if they'd provoked their rapist in some way.

Neal, despite his façade of absolute control, looked very close to losing it now that he knew that Peter knew what had happened in the belly of that prison. He looked at the wall, and the voice that had been previously bright, upbeat, was not hollow. "Please don't tell anyone. Mozzie and June and Elizabeth. They would…I'll tell them if I need to."

"Neal," Peter hesitated, then picked up Neal's smaller hand between his two huge ones. He was hurt by the automatic flinch. "I need to know…it's been killing me…"

"What do I think my chances are? For AIDS?" Neal laughed humorlessly, shook his head. "It happened a couple of times, Peter. And it's prison." Which, Peter translated, meant no protection. Not even that semblance of restraint. "So…pretty good." The laugh was borderline hysterical now, and Neal winced every few moments as bruises and cracked ribs made themselves known.

"Neal…" Peter could stand a distraught Neal, an angry Neal, a quiet Neal, but this nearly hysterical version in front of him made him feel helpless.

When he finally gathered himself together enough to talk through the bursts of laughter, Neal managed to choke out. "You know what the funniest part is, Peter? I spent four years on the streets as a teenager, never was concerned about getting AIDS. Not once. I start to get out of my life of crime, start to turn my life around, and that's when I get it. Isn't that funny?"

Peter didn't think it was funny at all, but Neal was laughing again, ignoring him, and all Peter could do was rub soothing circles on the back of Neal's hand and promise, quietly (but he hoped not hollowly) that everything was going to be okay.

**.*****

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	7. Dispirited

_So you think you can tell Heaven from Hell? Blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rain? A smile from a veil? So you think you can tell? **Pink Floyd**_

.***.

Two things happened the very next morning that complicated their lives. The first was that Neal had somehow dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs, so that by the time Peter and El woke up (at six o'clock in the morning) there was the smell of pancakes wafting up from downstairs.

Peter's first thought was that a certain small-statured con artist had broken back into the house late in the night and had taken over their kitchen for his friend, because no way could Neal be upright, let alone move around enough to make breakfast.

He was half right. When he got down the stairs he saw Neal sitting in a chair, stirring a bowl of pancake batter and chatting easily to Mozzie, who was staring at the hotcakes on the pan as if he was afraid they would leap out on their own.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Peter asked, so loudly and so suddenly that Mozzie dropped the spatula with a yelp and Neal jumped and bit back a yell of his own.

When the ex-con turned around, that familiar smile in place, Peter had to school his expression to not betray his disbelief. Yesterday Neal had been on death's door, and now he looked like nothing had happened at all. But then again, Peter reminded himself, Neal _was_ an ex-con, and this illusion of health might crumble to reveal that it was just an illusion.

"Good morning, Peter." Neal said, voice chipper and without a trace of pain.

"You should be in bed." Peter said, pointing at him accusingly. "I cannot imagine how you even got down the stairs."

"One foot in front of the other, just like everyone else." Neal's smile never faltered. He would pull off this charade if it killed him (and it might, his body was already screaming in protest). He'd always felt charity acutely – it was the reason why he paid June for her spare bedroom, even though she'd insisted many times over that monetary compensation was unnecessary, since Neal's very presence, she claimed, brought her so much pleasure. He needed to get away from Peter's compassionate, worried eyes, needed to get out from this extension of hospitality before he wore out his welcome.

"Permission to continue making breakfast, Suit?" Mozzie asked, injecting so much sarcasm and false-subservience into the words that Peter almost smiled. He nodded, and Mozzie continued flipping pancakes onto an ever-growing stack as Peter sat down.

"You really should be in bed." Peter said, looking at his partner and seeing the signs of fatigue and pain that the man had so obviously tried to cover up. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth, the hands that curled into fists on his lap, the tendons in his neck that bulged as he tried to literally swallow his pain.

"I need to get out." Neal said, then held up his hands as Peter started to growl again, "Not _out_. I won't go back to the office until tomorrow at least, mother." Peter ignored this dig, glad that Neal was making at least this concession. "I can't just sit in bed and do nothing. It's not in my nature."

Peter debated, then finally succumbed to his softer side. "I'm worried about you," he confessed quietly.

He was…surprised, and felt a pain of heartache, when Neal smiled so broadly at this simple statement. Had the man thought that Peter felt nothing for him? His actions this past week had not said great things about his character, but Peter had never been intentionally callous or cruel, and he felt sympathy for any living being that had been hurt, and as much as he had tried to deny it, there was a connection between him and the rascal con sitting before him. They were partners, but it was more than that. He had this urge to protect Neal, and urge that El knew about and had mentioned more than once had probably come from his paternal side.

"No need to worry, Peter," Neal smiled, "I'm fine." His smile became broader and he reached out a hand to Sachmo as the dog ran up, tail wagging.

El was trailing behind, and planted a kiss first on her husband's lips, then on Neal's forehead. "You feeling up to anything today, Neal?" She asked, pouring some coffee from the steaming pot and accepting a plate of pancakes from Mozzie with a smile.

"Anything that doesn't have to do with the Bureau. Peter doesn't want me to go in today."

"Understandable. You deserve a day off." El sat down across from him and touched Neal's hand. "Two clients called to cancel their appointments last night, so I have the entire afternoon to myself. Would you like to join me for lunch and a tour of the new wing of the art gallery?"

"El…" Peter began, seeing the way Neal lit up, as he always did, at the mention of art.

His wife sighed and swatted his arm. "Look at the poor man, Peter, and tell me that you honestly think he's either a flight risk or in any condition to steal a painting."

She was right. Neal, despite his even voice and relaxed face, was still mostly one big bruise with bandages and a couple of casts. He was a victim, not a criminal, and Peter knew he was going to be giving in.

"You can rest this morning. Mozzie, if you'll stay with him? I just don't want to leave him alone in his condition." Mozzie nodded, mumbling something about knowing your enemies, and El took this as a victory. "I'll be back by noon."

"You don't have to do this, El." Neal began, looking embarrassed at the attention, but El cut him off.

"You deserve this, Neal." Her voice was so completely serious, so warm yet firm, that anyone listening couldn't help but believe her. "Really, you do. Let me help you out."

Neal was touched. He'd spent three weeks in jail, thinking night after night that Peter had forsaken him, that everyone on the outside had forgotten about a conman named Neal Caffrey. Prison did that to you – made you question truths that you thought were as sure as the sun rising, as the waves crashing.

Night after night, he had experienced humiliation, and pain, and he would think, especially in those dark hours after Peter had dismissed him outright as a criminal (a cowardly criminal! Neal shuddered at the thought of ever being confused with a coward.) that perhaps it would be better just to return to his own life, allow Mozzie to break him out like the little guy had wanted to do since day one, and run off to Chicago, or Santa Fe, or New Orleans, anywhere, anywhere in the world.

The only thing that had held him back was _this_. The thought of Mozzie and El and June and even Peter (Peter, who had told him off, who had accused him of those things, and though Neal would forgive him, had already forgiven him, he would never, ever forget that night) had kept him in the jail, waiting patiently for his side of the story to come out.

"Thank you." He managed to El, who smiled and turned to compliment Mozzie on the pancakes. Peter seemed to be debating between giving him a don't-steal-anything speech and telling him to spend the day relaxing when his cell phone rang.

El sighed. She knew that her husband's job required him to be plugged in 24/7, but getting phone calls at quarter past six in the morning was not the way she liked to start her day. She shooed her husband away from the table and turned back to Neal. She loved talking to the ex-con about art, because the man had such a passion for it that all his facades dropped to reveal the truth about the man underneath: that when he was amongst art, he like a small boy in a candy store.

Peter was back before the conversation could really get going, and when El looked up she knew the news wasn't good, but she also knew her husband well enough to know that that distant, far-off look meant he was planning to do something with it. "What's up?"

"Organized Crime heard that Neal's back. They want him transferred to their department immediately until he finished the assignment."

Mozzie started protesting immediately, and Neal turned so pale Peter immediately regretted the words. The man looked like he was about to fall over.

"You told them they couldn't have him, right?" El asked, assuming that her husband had found one of those loopholes in interdepartmental cooperation that he was so good at exploiting.

Peter looked sincerely sorry, and he made sure to catch Neal's gaze and hold it before he said, "No. In fact, I insisted they take him tonight."

**.*****

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	8. Disinformation

_If our "message" is anything, it's a positive approach to life. That life is basically good. People are basically good. **Jim Henson**_

.***.

"Peter, please." Neal looked like Peter had never seen him before – afraid and hurt at once, his blue eyes lined with bruises and large with disappointment. He couldn't believe that even this man, who had left him in prison on another's say-so, would loan him out like luggage to the very people who had caused him so much pain.

Peter looked just as upset, but adamant. "It's the only way we'll be able to nail Organized Crime, Neal, and you know it. The Bureau covers its own ass in matters like this, and they won't take these guys down just on your word. We need some hard evidence."

"So you're sending Neal to them in hopes that they abuse him again?" El asked incredulously, stiffening when her husband touched her shoulder sympathetically. "That's barbaric."

Mozzie had raised a spatula and seemed torn between throwing it at Peter and comforting Neal, who looked like he'd been blindsided by a semi. He contented himself to mumbling curses at the Suit and rescuing his burning pancakes from the griddle. He sensed that this was one of those times where it was best to keep quiet and tell Neal his personal opinions in private.

"It has to be done, and I can't see how it's going to make things easier if we just put it off." He looked at Neal with so much compassion that the younger man was taken aback. "If I thought I could make this easier on you by waiting a week or a month or until your bruises or until the casts come off, I'd wait. But it's only going to be worse if you don't face it now."

Neal's mouth was set in a grim, hard line that was made more depressing by the fact that his lips were bruised and swollen from the impact of a cop's fist the day before. Could he trust Peter so soon after the betrayal at the prison? Could he afford not to?

A part of him wanted to drop the whole issue. Who cares in Organized Crime got away scot-free for setting him up as bait for a mobster? Peter would make sure that he never worked with them again, and his sense of justice and right and wrong was blurred with a con's ability to see the shades of grey. Blurred enough that he didn't have the fire in his blood to seek vengeance, at least not now that he was reeling from another attack and just wanted to lie in wait and lick his wounds.

But he knew that Peter was not like him, that for Peter taking down Organized Crime would go towards apologizing to him, Neal, for his infidelity. And a part of him, a larger part than he wanted to admit, would participate in whatever crazy scheme Peter had in mind just to prove that they could act like a team again. Because Neal…who was he kidding, he looked up to Peter, admired him, wanted to be like him in a way that he'd never wanted to be like anyone else.

And so it was only after a brief internal battle that he raised his eyes to Peter's and nodded curtly, making Mozzie swear forcefully and El frown. Peter patted him on the shoulder too hard and Neal flinched, remembering exactly how hurt he was and wondering worriedly if he was even up to whatever legwork he'd have to do to pull this off.

"It'll be okay." Peter said, withdrawing his hand at Neal's wince and looking sad but determined. "By tomorrow it'll all be over and you'll be back with me for good."

"If you hurt him again, Suit…" Mozzie left the threat unfinished but everyone in the room heard the ice in the words and knew that Mozzie had the power to make Neal disappear at the first sign of trouble.

"I won't." Peter held Neal's eyes and the words came out like a vow, a promise, and for an instant Neal, who had always been the odd kid out, let himself believe that Peter cared for him enough to fight for his safety.

.***.

Peter went into the office and straight up to Hughes's door. Already Diana and Jones had shot him questioning looks, wondering where Neal had been and why their boss hadn't come back to work after lunch the previous day. Peter returned their looks with one of his own that clearly meant _we'll talk later_ before knocking twice on Hughes's door before letting himself in.

The department head looked unusually haggard, and if the mugs scattered across the desk was any indication, he was already four cups of coffee into his day and it wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning. "Burke, if this is about Caffrey I don't want to hear about it."

Hughes didn't even look up from the interdepartmental memo that was sprawling slowly across his desk space, and Peter found himself slightly annoyed at this. But he needed Hughes's blessing to use their con to run a con, because there was going to be inevitable shit from the higher-ups in the Bureau for what he was planning for later on tonight.

"Organized Crime abused Caffrey, sir, and we need to protect his rights." As soon as the words left Peter's mouth he felt slightly ashamed of saying them: they were too high-minded for the very down-to-earth scheme he was planning, and made him sound more like a politician trying to cover his ass than a man trying to protect his people. But at least Hughes looked at him.

"A few days ago you were ready to let Caffrey rot in jail for screwing up the Stark sting. Why the change of heart?" He dropped the paper and glanced at his watch. He could use the break from the mind-numbing paperwork, anyway.

"Organized Crime was willing to trade Neal for information. They left him outside to freeze and then let him get beat up by the mob. Caffrey isn't even guilty of cutting his own anklet."

Hughes sighed. Just about everything that Peter Burke brought him was worthwhile and interesting but complicated his job to all hell. Neal Caffrey was one of those things. He'd suspected something was amiss when Organized Crime overrode whatever jurisdiction White Collar had and threw Caffrey in jail without even the semblance of letting the young man get his own story out, but work and crime had piled up as it does in the usual course of things and whatever intentions Hughes had had of figuring out the truth had been pushed to the bottom of his to-do list.

This was going to cause him hell, he knew it already without Burke having to say anything further. It was going to mean bad blood between White Collar and Organized Crime and a good reaming out from all the higher ups. It was going to mean long hours and phone calls and bad PR.

But didn't they owe Caffrey something? The kid hadn't been around for very long, but the few cases he'd been involved in had shown that the young man had insight that was deeper and more mature than one would expect from a con, even an extraordinary one like Caffrey.

So Hughes decided to go out on a limb and do something radical, like afford a con artist the same rights he would any other agent in his department. He gave Burke the go-ahead to do what he had to do to get hard evidence, and wondered how much worse his life was going to get because of it.

.***.

Jones was talking to Neal by the time Peter got back to his house, and he smiled at the sight of the two of them, locked in a philosophical argument over the merit of 14th century paintings versus sculptures. The black FBI agent was holding his own remarkably well against Neal's vast knowledge of the craft, but it was obvious that he was floundering.

"Peter!" Neal said, and Burke could tell that the day of rest had done him some good. His face looked less pained at least, and there was something of a spark of life back in his eye. "How was work?"

"Just peachy. You don't look ready for a job." Neal was dressed in sweats and an MIT sweatshirt that definitely wasn't his.

"Need a hand, Neal?" Jones offered in such a casual way that Neal could accept without feeling like an invalid.

On the way up the stairs, Neal paused next to Peter and squeezed the older man's hand. "Thank you." Neal murmured, "I know this is a risk for you."

Peter felt his mouth go dry. After all the badness he'd put Neal through, after all the broken bones and beatings and (god, the kid was _raped_ for Pete's sake) here he was thanking Peter, as if Peter deserved it, or as if he felt like he didn't deserve the extra mile the FBI agent was willing to go for it.

"Don't mention it." Peter ordered firmly, squeezing the hand back very, very gently. "You'd do the same for me."

And for the first time in his life, those words from Peter's mouth were absolutely true. Neal would do anything in the world to help Peter. Anything.

And shouldn't he be able to do at least that much for Neal?

**.*****

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	9. Disarray

_"Carry on my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more." **Kansas**_

.***.

When Peter sent Neal back to Organized Crime, he thought that unit was running a similar operation to the one they'd ran the night Neal was sent to Riker's. Something along the lines of trading Neal for information. Abominable as that was, Peter was prepared, had staked out Neal's position, was ready to intervene at a moment's notice, and didn't think that he was putting the young con in any undo danger.

He'd looked at the situation from all angles. These people needed to be brought to justice, but who would take the word of a con artist over the word of an entire division of the FBI? Who would take the time to listen to a convicted criminal when they could just ignore the problem and the hurt and the damage done and go on with their lives? Peter challenged anyone to try to come up with a better plan.

He was a pacifist at heart. He didn't like hurting people and he took no pleasure in seeing others get hurt, especially young, talented men who he was supposed to be in charge of, who he was supposed to protect.

So just for the record: if Peter had had any hint, any inkling, that Neal would end up in the hospital yet again, he never would have gone through with it. If he had known that Neal would, once again, be struggling for his life, he would have let everyone stay at home. Because sometimes even justice isn't worth the price of a human life.

.***.

This is how it went down:

Peter dropped Neal off with his handler at Organized Crime at nine o'clock that night. Nathanial Calloway was a hard man with grey eyes and an impassive face. When he led Neal to the car he grabbed the con by the upper arm so hard it left bruises like fingers. He was treating Neal like he was an inanimate object, not a man, and Peter just managed to bite his tongue because at that moment something washed over him. A premonition, maybe, but he brushed it off as paranoia. Either way, he was _this close_ to calling Neal back, making up some excuse, any excuse, and running away with his tail between his legs.

He wished he did, really he does, but you gotta believe him when he says that he didn't know, could have never known, and in the end when they're all waiting anxiously at the hospital, even Mozzie would absolve Peter of whatever blame he carried.

Doesn't matter, Peter still thinks it's his fault.

Nine fifteen, and they're at the place where the whole thing goes down. It's in a crummy part of town, the kind of street where you can imagine the Godfather being filmed, no problem. Peter's not in the same car as Organized Crime – that would be plain stupid. No, he was with Lauren and Jones, and they weren't in their van. They were in this cramped little car which was not as comfortable even as the van but what could they do? They were trailing the FBI, and it was a tiny alley. They had to look inconspicuous.

Nine twenty, and Neal is kicked unceremoniously out of Organized Crime's van. Peter seethed when he saw that they'd stripped him of the heavy coat El had made sure he had on when he left the house. Neal was only wearing a thin suit jacket now, and it was twenty degrees out. His injuries stood out stark and strange in the fluorescent glow of the lights.

Nine thirty. Nine forty-five. Ten o'clock, the guy finally shows up.

Here are four things that Peter didn't know:

One: That Starks was a really huge player in NYC. Sure, he knew that Starks had the power to get a cop killed, others killed, but he didn't know that Starks was moving fast towards becoming the most powerful man in the city. Why should he know? He was in white collar crime, not the violent stuff.

Two: That Organized Crime was getting reamed out by higher ups because of the NYPD cop. That they needed to get Starks fast and get him good, or else they could all kiss their jobs goodbye.

Three: That Organized Crime also thought that selling a convicted criminal in exchange for taking down a major player in NYC's underworld was a pretty fair deal.

Four: That the Butler guy Neal had pissed off in Morocco years ago would do just about anything to get Neal back. He was an angry guy who held grudges and didn't get crossed too often. His uncle also happened to be aforementioned Starks, most powerful man in NYC, ect. Butler was willing to turn on Starks, blab about all the layers of the mafia, what have you, as long as he got to settle his dues with Caffrey.

The Morocco job had been seven years before all this, and Butler thought that seven years interest for stealing from a hard-hitting member of the most powerful mafia in NYC could only be paid off with blood. With a life.

If Peter had known any of that, he probably would have been more prepared when Butler showed up not to drag Neal to some sleazy mob hideaway but to stab him in the stomach. He probably would have been more prepared when no one in the other FBI car across the way even moved to help the con.

But even if he'd known all that, nothing would have ever prepared him for seeing the best laid plans of mice and men crumble to pieces all around him as Neal sank down, down into the dirty alley, blood pouring from his side.

.***.

For the record, a couple of good things came out of the stabbing. Strange and warped as the idea is - that anything good can come out of so violent an act - loose ends did get tied when Neal Caffrey's heart stopped beating in a forgotten alley.

Obviously, they had the evidence they needed that Organized Crime had abused Caffrey, the evidence they needed to clear Caffrey's name. Not that it would matter much if Neal died.

But Organized Crime also got the information they needed on Starks. When Butler stabbed Neal he calmly cleaned his knife and put it in his pocket, turning his back on the dying man to go over to the FBI van. Peter couldn't hear the conversation – he was in a different car, and was wrestling with Jones, trying to unlatch the door even as Jones was saying, "Peter, just thirty seconds, wait thirty seconds. Call 9-1-1 if you have to, but let them get this guy before Starks kills more cops, okay? Peter, please. Peter, he'll be okay, call 9-1-1. Peter!"

What Butler was saying to the other agents was something like, "You held up your end, now I'll hold up mine. I always hated my family anyway." And he got into the van and they went back to the FBI headquarters, leaving Neal gasping and bleeding on the ground as if he didn't matter at all.

Only then did Jones let Peter go (and Jones wasn't being cold-hearted, only practical. He liked Neal, too, liked his easy humor and affable personality. He just knew that they had one opportunity to take down Starks, and Jones had friends over at NYPD who could be killed if this gang war kept going.) Jones was on Peter's ankles, Lauren right behind them.

Peter crouched down next to Neal, and in this light he looked way too broken to be saved. He was also shivering violently. "Jones -!" He was about to snap for the agent's heavy wool coat, but Jones was already draping it around Neal's shoulders, tucking it under his body to put something between he con and the cold, cold ground.

Neal reached up one shaking hand and grabbed Peter's wrist. He stared at the agent, confused disoriented. "Thought you left."

His voice trembled, the words broke, but Peter's blood still chilled at the small sentence. "No. No, Neal, we wouldn't leave you. An ambulance is on the way. It's going to be okay."

"The van," Neal continued, words halting, breaking, fading, but he was talking as if he didn't even hear Peter, "It left. With Butler. After he stabbed me. Why?"

"Shock." Lauren unnecesissarily murmured in Peter's ear.

"Neal, I'm so sorry." Peter didn't even have time to be embarrassed when a teardrop landed on the collar of Jones's coat, the coat that was covering up the fact that Neal was dirtying the city streets with his life's blood. "I didn't know this would happen. I had no idea. I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't leave me, Peter." And now Neal wasn't even looking at him. His eyes were glassy, looking past the agent, through him, over him. "Please don't leave me. I'm sorry about the cop. I didn't know. I didn't do anything wrong."

Peter's heart broke.

"You didn't do anything wrong. You did everything I ever asked you." He ran a hand through Neal's hair, damp with cold sweat. "You're going to be okay Neal, okay? Just hang in there. The ambulance…where's that ambulance?" He looked blindly at Jones, who was staring at Neal, stricken, unable to grasp what was happening.

"Don't leave me, Peter!" Neal's back arched in pain, his eyes squeezed shut from the force of it, and Peter held Neal's hand tight, willing himself to take some of the pain from this young man who deserved none of it. "Please don't leave me here. I can't stand it here. Peter!"

His words were getting softer, softer, until they were almost nothing, until even the pain that laced the syllables was gone, until Neal settled back against the ground, the last word dying on his lips when his heart, overtaxed, sick and struggling from the pains of the past three weeks, finally stopped beating.

**.*****

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	10. Dismiss

_"Start at the beginning." Said the Judge calmly, "And continue until you come to the end, then stop." **Alice in Wonderland**_

If only it were that easy.

.***.

Peter only stopped pacing when Mozzie pounded the wall with a closed fist so hard the dangling light above their heads wobbled. "Sorry," he said, sitting next to El and not meaning it at all. He wanted to pace again.

"Just go over it again," El urged, holding his hand and talking in that low, soothing voice that made the kinks in Peter's back automatically work themselves out. "You were with him after Organized Crime took off and then…"

"And then Neal's heart stopped," Mozzie spat, glaring at Peter from across the room. Four rows of chairs separated El and the FBI agents from the quirky con, but Peter could still feel the animosity rolling off the other man in waves.

"They got him back in the ambulance," El reminded gently, and Peter winced, remembering Neal's keening screams merging eerily with the whine of the ambulance as they sped through the city. He remembered the look on Neal's face as he begged Peter to just let him die. _I'm so tired_. He'd said, tears obscuring his brilliant blue eyes. _Please, Peter._

"We nailed Organized Crime, though. And Organized Crime nailed Starks." Jones pointed out dully, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to scare the image of Neal lying, bruised and battered, on the cold concrete, eyes staring at nothing at all.

"Neal's life isn't a price to pay for justice." Mozzie snapped. He'd been with Neal for years and never before had the man led such a dangerous lifestyle (and this was the same person who'd conned the titans of Wall Street.) A couple months with the FBI and suddenly his friend was thrown into Riker's (not a place for a little White Collar criminal like Neal) beat up by a bunch of cops (which only validated Mozzie's distrust of The System) and left out to dry by the very people he'd agreed to help.

He hadn't stepped in on Neal's request. Neal swore he could do this, that it would be alright, that everything would get better if they just let Peter nail Organized Crime so they could go on with their lives. Now he was regretting not breaking Neal out of Riker's and running when they'd had the chance. At least the kid would still be alive.

"You're right, Mozzie." Peter sighed, finally looking at the smaller man who was so tensed as he perched on his seat that he looked like the wrong word would send him on a rampage. "I never meant for it to get this far."

Mozzie opened his mouth, possibly to retort with something like _how far were you going to let it go?_ But before he could get the words out a haggard-looking Dr. Watling took a detour into the little waiting room. And since they were the only ones there…

"How is he?" Peter asked, stumbling to his feet.

"He's hanging on." The Watling said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "But anything could happen tonight. The next twenty-four hours are going to be crucial."

"Can we see him?" El asked, looking over the doctor's shoulder as if Neal was just around the corner, waiting for them.

Watling looked at all of them there and sighed. He knew the FBI took care of their own – he'd been treating agents who'd been injured in the line of duty for over a decade – but if rumors were to be believed then the poor man struggling for his life in the other room had also been hurt by the people he'd been trained to trust.

If it wasn't for Peter, who looked so guilty you would have thought he'd stabbed the guy himself, he probably would have told them all to go home and leave his patient well enough alone for the night. But he couldn't stop looking at the senior Agent. He knew what it was like to feel responsible for the charges under you. And he knew what it was like to think you failed at everything a leader was supposed to do.

"Just for a couple of minutes. He won't be conscious." Lucky man. When Neal woke up, he'd be in a world of pain that would make the previous weeks' injuries seem like paper cuts.

Mozzie bumped Peter's shoulder as he went past. It had taken him years to build Neal into a suave, successful con artist and a genuinely good man. It had taken Peter just under a month to kill him.

El held Peter's arm. "Just go slow," she cautioned him. "This may take awhile."

Over Neal's bedside that night were the typical tears, and sobs, the typical heartfelt confessions and clashes between FBI and con. There was also the not-so-typical life story.

"Shouldn't someone call his parents?" Jones asked, looking at Mozzie who was leaning against the window, staring at Neal's heart monitor as if he needed the rise and fall of the needle as reassurance that his friend was still alive.

"Mozzie?" El murmured, and because Mozzie was genuinely fond of this woman he actually answered when she spoke to him.

"He doesn't have any parents. Orphan." This was before everyone knew that Mozzie was also an orphan, before they knew he grew up in a city orphanage. This was also before they knew that Mozzie was lying to them, that Neal didn't have a mother - she'd died in childbirth - but he had a father. That Mozzie was holding the information back because the man was one of the nastiest brutes he'd ever met.

But they listened to Mozzie's lie and nodded, thinking it the truth. "They died when he was young. Car accident. Neal's alone in the world."

It was sobering to think that everyone who cared about the man lying in the bed was there in that room (with the notable exception of June, who would be there two days later, taking a cab from her plane directly to the hospital to cry over Neal as the convalescing man reassured her over and over that he was alright.) It made it all seem more serious, somehow.

"What do we do now?" Jones asked near dawn. This was going up on his list of the longest days of his life. Was it only twelve hours ago they were assuring Neal they would watch his back? Had it only been eight hours since the stabbing?

Peter vetoed the idea of leaving Neal alone – after what he'd done with Riker's, after everything the guy had been through the in the past weeks, he could only view that as cruel and unusual punishment.

"Mozzie and I can stay with him during the day," El said, patting her husband's arm, "Go home, get some rest. He'll be right here when you get back."

"That's what I'm worried about," Peter said, kissing her lips as he walked out the door.

.***.

Explaining to Hughes about Organized Crime was a lot easier than Peter thought it would be.

"Jones already gave me a heads up." Hughes sighed, looking at the clutter on his desk as if he had no idea how it got there. "At about midnight last night." There was a pregnant pause, and then Hughes rustled some papers and snorted. "Damn shame. He's a good kid."

"So the Bureau will pay for his hospital expenses?" Peter asked, his voice hard and allowing room for nothing but a _yes_.

Hughes finally put down the papers. "What happened, Burke? Really? I got a cursory summary from Jones but I'm getting the feeling he left a couple details out."

So Peter told him. All of it. From when Organized Crime tried to use Neal as a bargaining chip the first time to his wrongful imprisonment to the rape (he debated on this point, not wanting to reveal what to Neal was highly personal, but Hughes had to know the magnitude of this mess) to the cops' beating to the hospital to the stabbing to the hospital and by the end Hughes was looking at him, mouth open. "I can't believe it."

"It's terrible, sir. He'll need…two weeks' leave at least. And I think assurance from you that we will never put him back in prison," At Hughes's look he raised his voice slightly, "Never go back to a prison he obviously doesn't belong in. Like a maximum security. Like Riker's. I think if you told him that it would go a long way, sir."

Hughes tapped his fingers together, pondering, contemplating. "Damn shame." He murmured again, then met Peter's gaze. "When will he be up for visitors?"

.***.

One week later, Peter was sitting with Neal in the hospital. They'd shooed everyone else away – in addition to Mozzie, El, June, and an assortment of FBI agents, Neal had attracted the attentions of so many members of the nursing staff that it was occasionally hard to move around in his room without bumping into a woman in scrubs.

But today it was just them. Neal was sitting up, looking healthier than ever, but there was something in his eyes, a knowledge of pain, that hadn't been there before Peter had gone on vacation (he would never go to the Florida Keys again.)

"We'll deal with this, Neal. No matter what the outcome." Neal just nodded, a jerk of his head, barely acknowledging Peter's words. "And Neal…Neal. Look at me." The con's eyes flicked to him for a second and he winced. His face was still covered in yellow and green bruises.

"You're not any less of a man. You're not a bad person. There's nothing wrong with you." Neal looked away, unbelieving. "Hey," he said, his voice only very slightly louder but Neal winced as if he'd been shot. "You're not any less of a man. You're not a bad person. There's nothing wrong with you." He enunciated the words, laying down each syllable carefully until Neal _got_ it.

Neal looked at him. Really looked at him. "Thank you," He said, his voice low and warm and heartfelt, like there was a lump stuck in his throat and he wanted to get it out. "For everything."

"You have nothing to thank me for," Peter said, thinking of all the times he'd let Neal down in the last month.

"You came back for me," Neal said, squeezing Peter's hand. "Not many people would have done that."

Peter's lips twitched into something like a smile, and he patted Neal's hand as he turned towards the door, ready for whatever information was about to come through it.

**.*****

**the end.**

**what? not much of an ending? what happens to neal? does he have AIDS? dunno. write your own ending. perhaps we'll write a semi-sequel and post it, but we don't want to mess with whatever realities you craft for yourself after reading this. maybe in your world neal dies of AIDS within the year. maybe he doesn't have it and he and peter go on to do all the interesting and amazing things they do on the show.**

**but it's completely up to you. this is life, guys. write your own ending.**


End file.
